Believe in Love
by OneBigCosmicJoke
Summary: Sequel to Bad For Good: also named after a Scorpions song. Adriana is in the hands of Moriarty, Sherlock is somewhat pining, and tons more fun stuff that'll rip your heart out! Sherdriana 5ever.
1. Chapter 1

Adriana vaguely recalled hearing the phrase, 'time heals all wounds', or something along those lines. _Untrue_. Time made them worse; or maybe that was just the universe having a laugh while it screwed her over, again. Of course, it was most likely both; spending each day under a knife, heated metal, surgical tools, and a myriad other creative devices that caused her to scream and writhe; cry and struggle vainly, followed by curling up during the night in a small cell with next to no hope of escape had led her to believe that her heart would never heal, nor would the universe ever decide to give her a damn break. She had thought that her Serbian captors had been bad; oh, God, she had been wrong. _So_ wrong. Moriarty was hundreds of times worse than that. When he got bored of using his many tools against her bloody, skeletal form, he'd either let Moran at her with a knife, deepening the wound he'd already made on her stomach, or he would toy with her emotionally- convince her that she was unlovable, as if she didn't already believe that- hiss in her ear that she was a born killer, nothing more, and that her father's death had been her first kill, however inadvertent it had been- taunt her about Sherlock, which was worse than having his blades and needles in her skin. Sometimes he let his hands wander tauntingly over her skin, knowing she despised his touch. And after hours of enduring this, she'd be thrown to the floor and locked back into chains, given a small amount of food to keep her alive, and she'd slump into sleep. Not that the food did much; she usually emptied her stomach in the morning. After the devil knows how long, she was put into some form of isolation. That was her best guess, anyways; she knew that Moriarty had gone for the time being, and that she didn't even receive the slightest attention of a knife digging into her skin, and she spent her days and nights in a makeshift- yet strong- cell, a chain around her ankle, mostly timing how long it took for them to bring her some kind of food so that she could have the slightest perception of hours passing. Perhaps time did heal wounds, she contemplated one day; she just didn't notice. Her nightmares came back, at full force, though with the added element of Sherlock in them- making them even more hellish. After a while of that, she began to grow desperately bored. She almost longed to be dragged out and forced under Moriarty's excruciating hands, just to occupy herself with something. The men who occasionally brought her food never spoke to her, no matter how much she taunted them, or flirted with them (sometimes at the same time) and she turned inward for help, as usual. The voice that she had hated when she realized that she... _liked_... Sherlock really was quite sensible now, in her opinion, and she listened to it quite often. _Love had always ended up hurting her in the end, and the only person she could trust was herself_; she knew that now, though she was steadily paying the price for not figuring it out sooner. And, of course, she kept an eye on herself rather obsessively. Adriana figured that it would be like watching something decaying, slowly wasting away; oddly, despite her slim rations, she couldn't help but notice her stomach getting slightly larger. It would be imperceptible for most people, though she didn't have much to focus on other than her body slowly healing, before receiving new wounds, and changing. The realization of what was happening to her became painfully clear in time, and she began to fear Moriarty's return to torturing her more and more each day. She almost prayed that he would forget about her. But he didn't. And the day that she heard his shoes against the ground outside- everyone here wore thick boots, and that detestable, elegant sound could only belong to his disgustingly posh self- only one, clear, pronounced thought was running through her mind- _Well, shit._

The sound of the heavy door creaking open sliced through the silence like a blade. The familiar outlining of Moriarty's form was visible first, before he stood forwards, in the direct angle of the light; that false amicable smile lying upon his face. The cell was fairly large, considering, and small specks of dust flowing through the air were only visible when the light escaping the higher windows shone in their direction. The ceiling was tall and frail-looking, and without the great utilitarianism of the sound-proof walls, Adriana's various screams would only be more pronounced and immensely more audible. His voice was heard next, after the harsh, violent closing of the door behind him. "Say cheese." Mocked James, holding up the familiar mobile phone he possessed, and pointing the camera in the damaged-woman's direction. There was a blinding flash before the cruel and perturbed, until the disturbing realism of the scene before him became an image upon his phone screen. His eyes bowed to the screen, and he grimaced with melodramatic disgust, emitting a somewhat melodic "Hmm" from his lips. "Well, you've looked better." This was James Moriarty stood before Adriana, now. Adriana Selene Hartford, he mused, grinning. ASH hadn't seen 'Jim' for a long while; a couple of months, at least. There was the faint, audible sound of tapping as James ran his thumbs across the screen repeatedly. "And... send!" He exclaimed, grinning, glancing over to the woman in the corner of the cell; grinning forcefully dropping as he sighed. His eyes wandered over her for a moment; indiscreet, as always. _My God, she's gained weight. I'm starving her, for Heaven's sake. Talk about a plan that backfired_. He chuckled, and momentarily settled on thinking her stomach had swollen. But that would've hardly made sense. For a while-as he re-contemplated his decision- he stood before ASH, with dead, shark-like eyes with a curious, sceptical glare. _She knew. God, she knew_. A large, unstable and frenzied smirk spread across his lips to the realisation. "Well, well, well... Two for the price of one?" His smirk only grew to the point it was unbearable; "I do love a good bargain."

Months had passed, and Sherlock allowed his brother to gradually convince him that leaving Adriana was for the best; that she had run off somewhere to someplace safe. Despite every logical, legitimate reason Mycroft could conjecture, there was always that growing speck of doubt in the back of The Detective's mind. He thought it to be hardly a coincidence that when Adriana had left, he had begun to hear much little of James Moriarty, himself. Mycroft kept on saying how he saw brief sightings of Moriarty's men, but never once had he pulled them in to interrogate, and question; which was all the more reason for Sherlock's trust on his brother's helpfulness to abate. Although he had never mentioned his intimate relationship with Adriana to John, his comrade seemed to pick up his bother. Throughout the time of her absence, he only tried to make his anxiousness and despair less evident to those around him. The logician within him, however, did far from wane. If not it grew stronger; without having the distraction of love around. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and John had decided to pay Sherlock a visit. John sat in his armchair, and Sherlock sat in his own, and they discussed pointless topics over a spot of tea. John had been trying to build the courage to mention his proposal to Mary for weeks now. It was more than disdainful watching him struggle, and pick the right time to mention it; he was hesitant every chance he got, as if the whole situation would trigger an upset in Sherlock. Which, even now, he couldn't understand. He supposed he loved Adriana, yes. Things would remind him of her - not weddings, a gesture of ultimate love and all; just the mention of Mary/_Aggie _- but they'd never be painful reminders. There was no chance of her coming back, and that was for the best, and Sherlock had accepted that.  
>"So..." John inhaled slowly; "Sherlock."<br>Restraining himself from rolling his eyes with impatience, Sherlock only arched an eyebrow with genuine curiosity as to whether or not John would proceed with his telling. "John."  
>His comrade parted his lips, and The Detective was more than half-convinced he'd voice it, <em>finally<em>. But they were both abruptly interrupted from the anticipation of the other's response from a buzzing and a bleeping in Sherlock's trouser pocket. The man with the darkened-curls smirked, and sighed, holding up his finger to the blonde as he withdrew his phone; features freezing completely, _utterly_, when witnessing the awful image upon his phone screen.

_When's the baby shower, Sherl?_ _JM xx_

While Adriana had tried so desperately over the time that had passed (she had managed to be fully conscious and aware of the hours going by for around four weeks now, but the torture mostly just seemed like one long, terrible day followed by a nightmare plagued sleep, and she might've been here for a year, for all she knew) not to let her fear show, she seemed to have given up on that now. The terror and utter horror that she felt towards Moriarty was clear on her face and in her body language- She ended up backing into one of the walls of the cell, one hand over her stomach in a protective gesture that was mostly subconscious. When she realized that she was doing it, she let her arms drop to her sides, a slight tremor going through her. He'd use this against her. She already knew that, very well. She knew the instant that she had started noticing the signs that she was pregnant... God, she hated that word. It was rife with connotations of love and family and nurture, three things that had been completely ripped from her life. She didn't want a child; she knew that she would never be able to care for one, and besides, having a kid would be an even more constant reminder of her heartrendingly short-lived relationship with Sherlock. But at the same time, she did feel... protective. Perhaps it was merely some sort of motherly instinct that she hadn't forwent, but she couldn't help but feel the slightest responsibility for it. _It_, she thought, smiling a bit on the inside. _You __**will**__ make an awful mother. _That is, if your child even lives through this experience. Hell, if you even live through this experience. _Ray of sunshine, you are._ Empty words in retort; she knew that she was right. It was pointless to even imagine being a mother, since you'll be dead soon. _You're already in pieces, Adriana, I hardly see why you're even trying to hold yourself together. Just give up now. Sob, plead, scream for him, one last time, and then just let yourself die. _The words resounded somewhat in her, and she wished that she could get them to stop. But even her own inner monologue was out of her control by now. _It would be so much easier to give up. No more torture, or pain. This could be your last time facing Moriarty if you just __**stop fighting**_**. **She bowed her head slightly, lengthened strands of black hair hanging in front of her features. There was no witty retort to Moriarty's words; not this time. Were she to even attempt to speak, she'd only end up pleading, or begging, and as willing as she would be to do either of those things, she knew that they would have no effect on Moriarty. She barely made any motion to stop the usual men who fastened heavy chains to her frail wrists, keeping her pinned against the wall. She caught sight of gleaming silver, and closed her eyes for a moment. _Back to the surgical tools, then. _Not exactly a fitting end to all her fighting. The laser scene from Goldfinger would've been better. _C'est la vie, _she thought, glancing up at Moriarty's psychotic grin and mentally preparing to handle this fresh torture.

Everything about James Moriarty screamed: 'Satan'. If there were a God, he'd certainly tear any hope from such; over-whelming the world with his spitefulness and evil, seemingly-inexistent soul. His gestures were smooth, swift, and almost delicate. The way he made his weapons glide through the air effortlessly - as if encouraging a child to consume a meal it didn't want to eat; lovingly whispering 'Here comes the plane...' into it's ear - seemed innocent beyond belief. Of course, all that innocence was to abolish itself immediately when the weapon actually came to contact with the pregnant woman's skin. He'd whisper the occasional mocking word or sentence to aggrieve her, or dismay her before enduring in physical instead of mental pain. "Call me selfish," Whispered James, moving closer as he ran the blade of a surgical knife softly against her neck; maintaining a crouched position before her; "But I don't want any of _those _imbeciles to interfere with today's session." He said, grinning as his psychotic eyes flashed down to her stomach. Oh, Moriarty was utterly aware that sending that text to Sherlock was one Hell of a audacious, risky move, but it just made their game all the more fun; immense; immortal. James emitted a thoughtful, melodic and continuous "Mmmm..." from his lips, as the blade ran over the skin of her arm. And he didn't stop, he wasn't satisfied until he heard Adriana whimper in pain, until he heard the droplets of her blood fall onto the stone-cold floor. He wouldn't be satisfied until he heard her cry out with upset from the loss of her child. Holmes would probably find her soon, he mused. Or maybe he'd leave her be- thinking she's already dead?_ How wonderful_. One life at the time, he always told himself. It makes the game drag on longer; the unbearable anticipation for the opposition grow. The blade ran from her arm, to her wrists, avoiding the mark Moran had made until the point was against her skin. He clenched fists and beat her a few times until bruises formed; each whack bringing an inexplicable pleasure to Moriarty as he heard her ribs collide harshly with the wall behind her. And then he put his knife to work.

"Sherlock?" John said again. His friend had been in the same statue-like position for over three whole minutes now. It was getting worrying. Anything to get his comrade in such a bewildered, stupefied state was surely not a good thing; and in consequence, all sorts of nonsense, absurdity ran through his head. _What if it was Mycroft? Mary? Mrs. Hudson? Moriarty? Maybe the whole of London is about to blow up? _Sherlock was in that stature, the one you'd see briefly of before he sprung to his feet and dismissed himself from the scene abruptly. John shuffled to the edge of his chair, parted his legs and rested his hands upon his knees; getting ready to hurry and follow Sherlock out if deemed necessary. Finally, Sherlock emitted other responses from his body language, and slowly lowered his hand, returning his phone to his pocket. "That's great, John..." He whispered, softly, his voice and eyes and everything about him distant and focused on something other. Damn, if only I were as good at deducing... Cursed John, mentally to himself. He raised an eyebrow in return, as a delayed, curious response. He was about to question what was 'great' before Sherlock answered it himself and strolled steadily out of the room; "Mary will be delighted, though I suppose you'll postpone the proposal until another month or so..."

After the whimper of pain fell from Adriana's lips, and Moriarty moved on with his torture, she made steadily more noise; first in slight whimpers, or half-sobs, then in pained gasps and muffled screams. Muffled because she tried to keep her lips shut for the most part. The pain was so... consuming. So complete and undeniable. There was nowhere she could run, no way could she hide, no chance of convincing the man to just let her go or leave her alone. Utter helplessness. Her skin was entirely his to cut and bruise. The only coverings left on her from the outfit that she had first worn was about half of the shirt and some shredded remnants of her jeans; her boots were long gone, and the blood and grit on the floor could easily be felt on the soles of her feet. Her first scream came when she felt her ribs painfully hit the wall behind her; it was torn from her lips as the first of many desperate, pleading cries, the noise shrill and bloodcurdling to anyone who had never heard her scream before. Those people were not among these men, though, who looked on without a trace of pity in their eyes. She felt the blade bite into her skin again, and screamed once more, the noise carrying on before dwindling down to a sob. He had done this on purpose, she eventually decided. Left her alone for so long. It was to both torment her with boredom and to convince her that she might have a chance of surviving; if only he would just forget about her, leave her to her own devices. Given enough time, she might have been able to climb out one of the high window. She might have lived. But no; the worst day possible, when it was obvious that she was bearing a child and she had recovered greatly from the wounds he had given her before, that demon returned once more to slice into her, beat her, remind her that her life was absolutely nothing to him, and the only reason she was still alive was because he wanted to watch her slowly die. She felt him slowly pushing his knife into her side, watching her struggle vainly and sob as it broke the skin and the wound began to bleed, and she closed her eyes tightly. She needed something to distract her, anything._3.141592653... _He twisted the knife in her skin and she screamed again, throat beginning to ache, eyes flying open. Adriana found she couldn't focus on anything for very long. Her thoughts were scattered and nearing incoherent, most of them pleading her to stop fighting him, stop clinging to life. Even numbers had abandoned her by this point. Hell, the universe had abandoned her. Karma obviously didn't exist; or it would be her with the knife and Moriarty in chains. _You're so screwed up. It's not the universe, it's __**you**_**. **She had no response to that ready. She was messed up. She was so... so, so broken and twisted. What had she done when her father was murdered? She'd gotten a pair of foster parents, and mourned, but then she'd killed a man and gone on the run, hunting down a man who she could never kill. _Who does that? Who?! _Christ, now the self-loathing was setting in. Idiotic, violent, utterly unlovable woman, she was. The best thing to happen to her mangled life was Sherlock, and he didn't even love her. "Just kill me already," She found herself saying, in between her many pained noises and the steady crying. "Please, just... please, kill me."

The drastic change in his facial expression, the very flicker of surprise to flutter momentarily through his eyes like a quick shock wave of electricity was enough to indicate James' confusion; that what she had said was truly unexpected. The surprise, for that minute moment, was genuine. He emitted the softest, uncharacteristic of breaths against her marked, bruised, scarred and bleeding skin, with a thoughtful and innocently angelic sigh. "You're far from virtuous, my dear." He whispered softly, shuffling back down to his feet and twisting the knife until his fingers were firmly wrapped around the blade. He pulled back his arm, arching the point of the (what he had now turned into a) weapon to face Adriana directly; his eyes filled with abrupt animosity and spitefulness, but an overall demonic evil that would be enough to make you want to kill yourself four hundred times over. "You don't _deserve _to die." He spat, before dropping his arm and shoving the knife into his pocket. His voice, once normally thick with an irresistible Irish lust, seemed now as though it belonged to that of a mad man. Which, of course, it evidently did; his psychotic, wild eyes returning. With that, he stood, and he left; the blood of ASH trailing from his boots, leaving the occasional mark upon the stone floor.

Sherlock was steadily strolling out of Baker Street, caressing the phone gently he had re-placed into his coat pocket as he walked, as if it was his life source. Though, it was his motivation for the time being; whether it was a façade of false hope and whether it'd bring him nothing but upset and sadness, he didn't care. There was a chance Adriana was alive... and... Oh, God. Could he really have a child? _How ridiculous_. There was the fairly good chance Moriarty was just making the whole situation up, in order to lure him in further... but... well, what he had briefly deduced about the picture was the following: It was Adriana, no doubt; the familiar, renewed mark of Sebastian Moran lingering over her stomach, alongside multiple others that made him grimace with disgust and discomfort to the sheer thought; Going by the marks upon her skin, and her state of health, the fact that she was still alive implied enough that she'd been held hostage wherever it was she were since she had left him; this only made the animosity for his brother grow stronger. If only he hadn't- _no, no 'If only at a time like this; _and, of course, the highly perceptible bump that was forming below her stomach. Just when Sherlock was about to emit a shaky breath of disbelief of nervousness from his lips, there was the familiar voice of John from behind him. He turned, gripping the phone harder, and looked to John like there wasn't a bother in the world.  
>"What is it, Sherlock?" He asked, standing before him with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands in fists and his jaw clenched with anxiousness.<p>

Everyone seemed to think that death was the worst punishment- execution the single most terrifying sentence. A less true lie had never been told. This was the single worst thing that a person could ever endure, and by some sadistic, twisted cosmic joke, it had fallen upon Adriana. Death was relief, death was mercy; death was quick and kind in comparison to this. Not that she really knew, or would ever know. She didn't _deserve_ death, after all. She slumped in the chains, head bowed and emerald eyes shielded from the world, little more than a rag doll held by the metal links still fastened around her wrists as she was left alone in the room. Her limbs were aching already from being the sole support for the rest of her weak, pitiful self, though that was minor in comparison to the rest of her wounds. The deep cuts in her skin stung like a bitch, and she was pretty sure he had managed to bruise her ribs as well; and, of course, her mouth tasted like blood and every single inch of her body was still shuddering from the breath that Moriarty had placed upon her. How he managed to do that; shift between bringing her excruciating pain and then causing her being in its entirety to scream in disgust at his gentility was further proof of how psychotic he was. She opened her eyes, glancing down at herself; rivulets of blood pooled against her hips and ankles, warm and sickening. She sobbed, closing her eyes again, feeling tears streaming down her cheeks and the familiar taste of blood rising to the back of her throat. Symbolic of her absolutely wrecked life, the young woman thought with another slight groan. _You could die, right here, right now. It's only a matter of letting go. You're injured enough, aren't you? Damaged, on the inside and out. _In the strangest way, she was still adamant to survive. The voice inside her, coercing her to stop fighting and to simply give up and die, was almost motivation. _You __**have**__ always been a rebel. _Punctuating that thought with a cough as she choked on blood, Adriana staggered to her feet, relieving her arms for a moment. _A rebel. Sure. _She opened her eyes, the normal brightness and shine utterly dulled, and glanced towards the cuffs. A bit of nostalgia flickered through her- they had the same locks as the ones in Serbia. Funny coincidence. She turned her head, staring back down at the ground. She'd take Serbia over this any day. She'd take a hospital over this. Cops. Sherlock. Hell, she'd prefer to spend a night in a Serbian torture chamber disguised as a hospital with dirty cops who all looked like Sherlock. She sighed heavily. They were all the same, weren't they? Mycroft, Sherlock, Moriarty... manipulative, wickedly intelligent, tall sociopaths and psychopaths. She twisted her hand in the cuff, picking halfheartedly at the lock with her nail- not that it was doing anything. She needed a distraction. From the pain and from the memories running through her head. Numbers? 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8... oh, but there was Sherlock singing Scorpions to her. Only time the Scorpions ever did her wrong. She smiled weakly to herself, recalling listening to Rhythm of Love on repeat while sniping a mafia boss; she'd put The Zoo on a jukebox during a bar fight with a group of drug-smuggling thugs... oh, and of course, the time she hacked into the PA system at a Scandinavian triad's HQ disguised as a school and played Don't Believe Her before blowing it up. _Good times. _She sighed, mindlessly tapping a beat on the chains. _The wise man said, just walk this way, to the dawn of the light, _she sang in her head, smiling a bit. _The wind will blow into your face, as the years pass you by. _She hummed a bit too, ignoring the lingering taste of blood. _Hear the voice from deep inside, it's the call of your heart... Close your eyes and you will find, the passage out of the dark. _Scorpions apparently made an excellent distraction. "Here I am," She sang under her breath, "Will you send me an angel?" She sighed, before continuing, closing her eyes. "Here I am... In the land of the morning star." Tap, tap-tap-tap. That was the rhythm. _Next verse, _she thought, carrying on with the beat and the soft singing. _Chorus. _"Here I am... will you send me an angel?"


	2. Chapter 2

"It's Mrs. Hudson, John." Said Sherlock, casting his gaze to the ground as his grip upon the phone in his pocket tightened generously. "She's had a minor heart attack, is all..." He explained, somewhat curtly as he glanced back up to the blonde opposite him. As John was bursting out with multiple comments, and disbelieved questions of shock, Holmes rose his hand and hailed himself a cab. "Yes, yes... You don't mind if I take this on my own? I just need to..." He sighed, a little melodramatically; "I need to think. Time alone... I'll meet you at the hospital." He lied, slipping himself into the cab and allowing it to move ahead without another word towards his comrade. At first, Sherlock was admittedly too stupefied and shamed with the shock of Adriana being held captive for all of these months without realizing it; the only way he was to discover such was to be told via an 'anonymous' text. He clenched his jaw with anger, vex, animosity, frustration- any possible negative emotion in the dictionary, you name it! It was patently evident in his eyes and body language. But when his mind was forcefully calmed, he began to think straight, and cogs began to turn and theories were again conjured. Sherlock did his own research into James Moriarty; Jim from IT; Richard Brook-every single character he had ever created, and what he could gather from the picture was (other than his beloved enduring inexplicably excruciating pain, which undoubtedly made his blood boil with vengeance) that the room was lonely, frail, musty... It might as well have been a replica of the Serbian cells themselves. He would have never guessed Moriarty to be a simple man when it came to the scenes of torture. Above all, however, the room was old; which meant the building was old, and quite obviously in the middle of nowhere- or so he supposed; surely if it was in a public place, screams would be heard. _Screams_. _Of Adriana_. Sherlock grimaced. If James knew where it was, perhaps the building would hold some form of sentiment? Old school? No. He was raised in Ireland. University, maybe? Mentally, Sherlock began to eliminate various universities around London, until he stumbled upon a few that matched his deduced description of the one Adriana was in. One was still in use, the other... _forgotten_. His fingers tapped the space beneath the window from where he was sat with impatience; the beat giddy and nervous. "You alright there, mate?" Sounded the cabby's voice. Sherlock merely glanced at the man. _God, he didn't even have a gun._ What would he do when he arrived? Insult the men to death? Waltz about, stating the obvious to the point he earned a punch to the face? A kick to the stomach? "Oi- I said, are you 'r-" With an abrupt raise of his hand as the vehicle approached a forest, Sherlock emitted a large "Stop!" From his lips. He gave the driver the faintest of smiles before slipping out of the car. "Thank you. I'll walk from here."

Adriana wasn't the best at singing; she actually despised singing in public, which was part of the reason that she preferred playing percussion. Out of the spotlight, but being the blood of the music, that was where she wanted to be. Though in this instance, perhaps because of the fact that she was right on the edge of passing out, she actually sounded a bit decent. She leaned her head back, humming the guitar part, smiling a little to herself. Survival had always come so easily to her back then. There was no internal debate about whether or not she should live; she didn't need a distraction from the pain then. She'd always just took it, easily, then laughed and taunted her captors. There had certainly never been no pleading for death, no willingness to leave the Earth. What the hell had changed all of that? "Wise man said, just find your place in the eye of the storm. Seek the roses along the way, just beware of the thorns." She sang, keeping her voice to a volume that only she could hear; the last thing she wanted was some passing guard to detect her singing. His laughing would definitely mess up her rhythm. "Here I am, will you send me an angel?" Why was she so... _weak _now? She had always prided herself on being the heroine, the female lead, the tough girl. Even before her father's death. No one bullied her in school since she judo flipped a kid who made fun of her curly hair- which had formerly been long and light brown, before she decided it would look better short, black, and pink- and she was smart enough to get away with whatever trouble she ended up in. And now, all of a sudden, Adriana Selene Hartford is the damn damsel in distress._ Pregnant_ damsel in distress. "Here I am..." She trailed off, frowning a bit and opening her eyes. She was sort of... damsel-y at the moment. Ew. And she was barely even fighting it, either! God, that was sickening. She was almost as bad as that irritating blonde from the Princess Bride._ You're really bipolar, you know that, right? _Oh, shut up. She glanced up at the chains again, wondering if they were rusty enough that she could break them. Maybe, if she'd been working out while she was trapped in this cell instead of moping. _Pathetic, Adriana. You were being pathetic._ She let out a long breath, wrapping her fingers around the chains that held her up, and gave one of them an experimental pull. The rustiness was clearly some sort of facade, as they held tight. "Fuck." She muttered. Serbia all over again, really. Though she had had more of a chance to escape there, since they'd let her sit down, and the chains were loose enough to give her some room to move her arms. Still, though, had she ever looked at a situation and considered it inexplicable? No. And she wasn't starting now. She tugged on the other chain, stifling a cry of pain as the metal rubbed against her bloody wrist. And when she got out of this, she was going to find Jim Moriarty, and hang him from a noose made from his own guts. Or maybe vivisect him. Or just stab him multiple times in the chest. Her immensely violent thoughts were interrupted by some sort of commotion outside, which she tuned her ears carefully to, wondering if there was anything useful going to be exchanged- preferably gunfire, since that might draw someone to this location. Or get them to call in the armed forces. The latter would be better, since the former would leave them as a splatter of blood across the ground.

Although there were more clouds than sunlight, and although Sherlock was walking beneath the trees and across the right-hand side of the road, he began to feel rather warm. Heated. Perhaps it was the adrenaline returning to his veins; the anger and vengeance boiling his blood. It had something to do with anticipation, quite obviously, though Sherlock still kept his steady walking pace as he strolled through the forest, not wanting to make a patent impression if being spotted approaching the building. His curls were brushing gently over his forehead from the faint breeze passing, and his hands were in his pockets, fingers wrapped tightly around the phone. He hadn't viewed the picture a second time, and didn't really intend to, as it would abolish any thought-through rationality and ruin the somewhat stealthy manner he was to abide by. Despite this, however, his mind was focused on nothing _but _the picture. Nothing _but _Adriana. She could be dead for all he knew, but he wouldn't let his upset or despair to counteract him from his revenge. He knew Moriarty had to die either way; for hurting her, for killing her father, taking her from him, ending such a beautiful, yet damaged life- and _God_, plenty much more. He would've been able to fix her. He was certain, because she fixed him, too. But he didn't get that chance, did he? _Well perhaps you did, you're just a high-functioning _**_ignorant _**_sociopath_. Sherlock was evidently too caught up in his thoughts to notice how close he was, exactly, to the building. When he did notice, though, he estimated just a few dozen yards were left to walk before he entered. _The game is on_, he thought, trying his best to crack an excited smile; crystal-like eyes glistening with anticipation and violence.

Two men were stood outside smoking a cigar; if you took a route behind them and ventured through the outside of the forest you'd be able to discreetly remove the weapon lodged in the back of their belt. There'd be a choice of two, undoubtedly; Sherlock had paid close attention to the torturers in Serbia. A knife would be the preferred weapon to use and to rid of them, as they didn't draw attention with any loud and inconvenient 'bang'. Now, where to stab them? The throat, of course, so they'd lose the capability to yell. But there were two throats to slit, he'd have to do it smoothly. Swiftly. Bring the blade to the front of the neck? No; when reaching around his arm to do so, he'd be spotted by the other man in less than two seconds. Back? Not if he wanted blood to be squirted directly at his face. He had to stab them above the shoulder, and below the neck. Right in the vein vampires are said to drain. After his plan was assembled, he put it quickly into action. He slid into the forest, hurried from tree-to-tree until he stepped out until he was stood behind both men. A silver speck of light caught his attention, and he briefly smirked and took a moment or so to admire his correct deduction before his plan faulted. The man beside him dropped his cigar, and glanced over to Sherlock with an arched eyebrow. But by then, The Detective had the knife in his grip, the man's comrade to the floor, and he was swinging his hand across the remaining smokers throat until he fell to his knees and pressed his hands against the wound that was going to kill him in 5...4...3- The man fell face-forward in his own pool of blood with a sharp and disturbing 'splat', and Sherlock frowned a little to the timing. He was off by two seconds. _There's always something_. He slipped the knife into his pocket before dragging the bodies deep into the forest with some difficulty and returning to the entrance of the building; hair in a disorganized mess, shoulders slightly slumped, and clearly out of breath. He smoothed down his hair, his coat and the rest of his attire before nonchalantly strolling in with a small pep-to-his-step.

The building looked nothing like it did on the outside from within, though the corridors were tall and rather dark; any possible light being incapable of shining through due to the barricaded windows. All was awfully silent on this level of the building, and for a moment Sherlock left himself as rather perplexed more than afraid. Could they have already known of his arrival? He strolled up two more flights of stairs until noise was heard; the faint mumbled of discussion emitting from a group of five men. One was fairly tall, blonde, and stood out upon the rest clearly. _Sebastian_. Moriarty, however, was nowhere to be seen. The sight of Moran drove Sherlock almost to the state of insanity, as he walked forwards un-hesitantly and exclaimed "Are you Sebastian Moran?!" directly at the blonde man, eyes un-wavering. All five men turned, and it didn't take them long to gain a state of confusion and uncertainty as they parted their legs and clenched fists. "Mr. Holmes, I presume." He said, with a forced smirk. Nothing much could prevent from what followed. A gun was slipped from one man's pocket before that man was pushed against the wall and knocked unconscious by a blow to the back of his head, two other men got a bullet in their brain before Sherlock extended his leg and pushed back the remaining, pointless man with his foot to his stomach. And then he turned to Moran, looking past the gun pointing between his eyes before gesturing briefly with the weapon to the room to their left. "Is she in there?" 

The noise that Adriana had detected outside seemed to fade slightly, which was slightly disappointing. All she had really heard were the sound of two rather large entities slumping to the ground, which could have been anything; it was ridiculous to get her hopes up. Two fat people outside could have locked lips and fallen to the ground, for all she knew. There were other things that needed her immediate attention, however, such as escaping, and obese lovers could wait. Chains- how to get out of them? Also, she would need to open the door and somehow kill the guards, then find her way out of the building and navigate foreign territory until she managed to get somewhere she could seek help, all while not ending up passing out from the exertion. But she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, the chains. The links had already proven to be holding strong, and the metal bracelets hurt like hell, so she probably wasn't going to be able to pull them off; she didn't have a bobby pin or a paper clip, or even a bit of tinfoil to help her pick them. _Maybe_ there was a chance of convincing one of the guards to let her go, but these men seemed to have had their souls surgically removed, and she doubted very much that they would be too much help. Alright, so things seemed entirely hopeless. Oh, well. She'd come up with something; she always did. _Or, you know, your cellmate's brother comes up with something_. That had been an off day, though. She sighed heavily, bowing her head to her chest and looking down at her abdomen. God, her stomach hurt. Maybe worse than her wrists did. It was the sort of piercing, consuming pain that she had assumed was only possible when Moriarty was present. Though, looking down, she saw the knife wound he had made in her abdomen; it was bleeding a bit steadily now, and causing most of the pool of blood at her feet. _Fuck_. She'd need to do something about that. Her legs could barely stand even more, though, and she was losing feeling in her blood-coated feet. She could rest a minute, right? Maybe. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the chains, hissing in pain as she let her weight go to her arms and hung from the chains for a minute. _What if you don't make it out of this? There's always that chance. You were willing to die a moment ago, what if that comes back? What if you let Moriarty kill you? Destroy your spirit and-_ at around that moment, she felt a sudden slack on her left wrist, and whipped her head to the side, staggering to her feet. One of the links in the chain had broken from her weight, despite her being a skeletal, scrawny thing. Pessimistic thoughts cast aside, as well as the growing danger of the wound in her side, Adriana pulled harshly on her left wrist, letting out a soundless scream as the metal bit further into her wrist. The chain came free, the metal bracelet and a few links still attached to her wrist, and her left side slumped with relief, her hand going immediately to the wound on her stomach. The warm blood seeped through her fingers, sickeningly, though she had slowed the damage for now. She turned to her right wrist and pulled harshly on it, letting out a half-scream, half-cuss word as she did so. God that hurt. Self-inflicted pain was already the hardest to deal with. Though one of the links had come a bit loose, and she figured if she pulled again, with the same level of power, she might have a chance of getting out of it. At that moment, though, she heard a voice outside her cell. She couldn't hear exactly what it was saying, as her ears seemed to be filled with cotton- another sign of losing consciousness. Fan_tas_tic. - but it seemed familiar. It was followed by gunfire, and several more thumping sounds; her eyes widened slightly. Probably someone else who had a bone to pick with Moriarty. Right wrist- _focus, woman._ She yanked hard on the chain, stifling the noise she produced by leaning into her shoulder. Her right wrist fell free, though it also had the added weight of the metal. She tried to step forward; it didn't work. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she crumpled onto the floor, wincing as she felt blood coat her legs. At that moment, she heard four distinct words outside the cell, some amount of her awareness somehow restored, all of which made her freeze. 'Is she in there?' Though it wasn't the words so much that made her freeze as the voice saying them. Sherlock. That was Sherlock. She put both her hands over the wound on her stomach, suddenly desperately self-conscious of the still somewhat prominent size of it. Why was Sherlock here? Why would he, presumably, fire a gun at Moriarty's men, then ask a question like that? He couldn't possibly be rescuing her. She wasn't worth anything to him anymore. It wasn't as if she had managed to gather any new information during her time here, other than that Moriarty was a psychotic bag of dicks, and that was hardly new. Maybe he'd had a change of heart. Maybe he felt guilty. Or paternal. She stared down at her stomach for a moment. After that stab wound... and everything else she'd been put through, she somehow doubted that any fathering obligations he might have would be terminated fairly quickly. Her ears had gotten all foggy again, which was frustrating, as she could vaguely hear Moran saying something, and the sound of a key turning in the lock. She was alarmingly self-conscious of how she looked, all of a sudden. Skeletal, covered in blood and wounds, the pink mostly gone from her hair... she glanced up at the door, the small spark in her emerald eyes somewhat back, anticipation writhing in her battered chest.

With a gun pointing at Sebastian Moran cautiously, Sherlock's gaze was fixated attentively upon the lock as the sounding of a key twisting it to its release was heard. The door swung open to reveal a beaten, bleeding, and barely living woman with chains around her ankles and cuffs around her wrists. The first motion to affect Sherlock's emotions was the shock; causing all emotion to be in-evident and seemingly inexistent. And then it slowly melted into sympathy, and then to anger and animosity, returning with a burning vengeance. There was a pool of Adriana's own blood circling her body, and the vermillion was so distinct, you could easily mistake it as spilled red paint. Sherlock could only hope it was red paint, as, for the meantime he was stood, watching attentively as the life was slowly waning from her. Pushing the rather surprised-looking blonde forward, Sherlock quickly spat a demand his way, until the man was kneeling beside Adriana and unlocking her easily from her various chains. God, she was chained up like some sort of _animal_. Sherlock could hardly understand why; she was the singular most beautiful thing on this bloody planet, and if that was how people treated such amazing beings, his faith in modern day's society was nothing but despair, and quickly inexistent. Sebastian stood, and turned suddenly to the intruder with wide eyes. "How did you know where to come? Who told you our location?" Sherlock glared at the blonde for a while, gradually lowering his gun and taking a moment to ponder what was to happen next. Could he kill him, like the rest? There was hardly anything noteworthy, or seemingly _special _about this man that'd aggrieve Moriarty if he were to be murdered. "James Moriarty. He told me." With that, he swung his arm around and sent Moran from his feet and to the ground; knocking any possible consciousness from his being within an instant. With a slumping of his shoulders, and a heavy breath to emit from his mouth, Sherlock turned shortly afterwards to the woman on the ground. He shoved the gun into the back of his trousers before hurrying over to her, crouching down and examining her various wounds. Instead of looking to her stomach first, he examined her pupils to estimate how long of consciousness she had left, the state of her bones and muscles, before finally noticing her tremble softly. He slid his coat from himself, and rested it neatly over her shoulders. And that was when he found himself at a loss for words. What was the correct thing to say in such a situation? Sherlock bit the inner part of his lower lip in a gesture expressing his anxiety before taking her from her feet and holding her in his arms with ease. He decided to remain silent for the time being, thinking that to be best; and he took Adriana into the cab outside, placed her along the seats in the back of the car before taking the dead man's seat, whose body was strewn along many from within and around the building.

So this was Sherlock Holmes? James warned him about this man. He let out a large huff when being told to open the door, and let out another dramatic sigh and eye roll to the silence that lingered. He was probably taking a while to deduce something or other. He did that, right? Too often, in Sebastian's opinion. The first thing he noticed, though, when opening the door, was Adriana and her free arms. The chains had broken? _Cheap shit_. Moran wasn't the slightest bit afraid; this wasn't the first time to have a gun to his head. Currently, he was positive that Holmes didn't have the courage, the mere capability to kill him. He supposed he may have under-looked things a little, going by the multiple corpses behind them both, though. Going by the curt explanations of this detective by Moriarty, Sebastian new better than to argue when being pushed before the woman he had tortured for months on end, multiple times, only to free her. He clenched his jaw, pulling to his chain of keys before unlocking her hesitantly, glaring at her with sheer spite. Sure, Sherlock Holmes was intelligent; manipulative; cunning- But how in the Bloody Hell did he know to come here? After releasing the woman, he brushed back his dirty-blonde hair and turned to The Detective with an arched eyebrow. "How did you know where to come?" He paused. Nobody could be so smart, especially him; not even Moriarty could. Somebody must've spilled the information; _fuck_. "Who told you our location?" The look that the brunette gave in return made the hair on the back of his neck rise, and his skin crawl. It made him uncomfortable, as he realized that Sherlock had the power, now. It was horrible, feeling so weak, so vulnerable. "James Moriarty. He told me." Said Sherlock, rather simply, without a care in the world. Though, Moran managed to catch the small glimpse of his cunning, conceited smirk before everything turned black.

In the end, Adriana wasn't sure when she lost consciousness. The events that transpired were almost as if she was having some sort of delirious dream, and for a few moments, she wondered if any of it was real. Looking back, she vaguely remembered sitting numbly while the metal bracelets were unlocked, and hearing some sort of foggy words, and then the world seemed to grow choppy and confusing around her; and then she was wrapped in a coat- his coat. Why? Why was all of this happening? Why was he saving her, why was he being so... gentle? She wondered, thoughts whipping around her head like scraps of paper in a harsh wind. It would be impossible to answer any of those questions- Her mind was the equivalent of a puddle of water at the moment, and she couldn't really think straight. To begin to consider the answers to why the sociopath who had practically plunged an emotional knife into the center of her chest was now holding her and keeping his coat wrapped around her would be a task that she presumed impossible. A pity that he had wrapped his coat around her. She would likely bleed all over it... Christ, she needed a hospital; she knew she needed one, but she'd rather die, then go to one. Sterile, disinfectant smelling bad memories, the lot of them. Moriarty probably had people there; she'd die if she went to one. She tried to voice this to Sherlock, though a wave of tiredness fell over her body, which had been running on fumes up to this point, and the world seemed to spin once around her. Darkness and redness plagued the edge of her eyes, and she crumpled slightly, letting out a small whimper as she did so.

The injured woman regained her awareness of the world and what was going on around her after some time of limply laying in the back of the cab like a rag doll. The first thing she saw was her barely clothed, skeletal form wrapped in Sherlock's coat, and the fact that she could see his curly hairs sticking over the back of the driver's seat. "Wha...?" She breathed, her voice coming back to her slightly. She sat up, weakly, the coat slipping down her body slightly. The blood from her main wound had dried a bit, disgustingly, and she could feel the cloth of his coat sticking to her. _Revolting... _She coughed, feeling the familiar taste of blood in the back of her throat. While she was still conscious, she needed to talk to him. Say something. Ask him why, or... or... _Fuck_, her head hurt. She sat up further, bracing her back on the car door and her head on the sill, eyes trained on him. "... Why?" She managed eventually, clearing her throat and swallowing the blood, despite how sickening that felt. "Why the _hell_ are you saving me, Mr. Holmes? What use could I possibly have _now_?" There was a slight growl edging her words; partly because of the pain she was going through to speak and stay awake, and partly because there was a sort of refreshed anger coursing through her veins. She had never gotten a chance to speak to Sherlock after finding out why he had shown any interest in her whatsoever; no chance to get out how frustrated she was that _no one_ would ever actually love her whom she could love back, no chance to show him that she didn't care, when inside she was broken in half. "If you think I'm going to fall for you again somehow, you're not really a genius, you bloody bastard." Her head had already begun to spin again, and she clutched at her stomach, holding back a sob. "You know, you seemed like you didn't like Moriarty, or your twat of a brother, and yet you're exactly like them. A manipulative, demonic sociopath who's played a part in breaking me further. I guess it was all just part of your act." Talking hurt. Everything hurt. But she had to speak, at least establish that she wasn't going to let him hurt her again. "Though the three of you devils managed to succeed. I'm broken; not snapped clean in half but crushed up into a thousand pieces and scattered. Congrats, psychopath!" She dug her nails into the seat cushion. "So now that you know that I'm not any use to you, either take your bloody coat back and leave me on the side of the road, or offer up some other reason why the hell you'd bother to get me out of there." She was about three seconds from falling back into darkness, but she decided to use those three seconds to figure out why she was still alive.


End file.
